


Second Skin

by bellatemple



Series: But Deadly [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mute Dean Winchester, Muteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-06
Updated: 2008-06-06
Packaged: 2017-10-26 19:04:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellatemple/pseuds/bellatemple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fire, Dean takes Sam to South Dakota.  Damned if Sam can figure out why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Title and lyrics from "Second Skin" by Ego Likeness.

Bobby bit back a curse when he heard the heavy growl of a familiar engine making its way up his drive, then let the second one out when he heard Rumsfeld start to yowl. The dog knew Dean Winchester perfectly well, so his barking could mean one of two things. First, that Dean was possessed -- Rumsfeld had been trained to throw a royal fit when he scented sulfur, though it was as of yet untested. Bobby liked to think that demons knew better than to mess with him on his home front. If this was the case, then Bobby was well-prepared, and it might just be a nice change, if a demon possessing a body couldn't get said body to speak. Second, and he figured, more likely, was that Dean had brought a friend with him. Mind you, as far as Bobby knew, the boy didn't have any friends, aside from his brother, but it was always possible he'd ended up with a victim tagging along or something like it. Maybe a possessed one. He could never tell, with Dean.

The only sounds from the yard were Rumsfeld's. He'd have to go out and check.

As it turned out, Bobby'd hit the nail on the head with that second guess. Dean stood by the driver's side door, his hands folded casually on the roof, his head turned in profile towards the trunk. A small smirk twisted up the visible side of his mouth, though from his stance, Bobby guessed he was exhausted. He was watching a taller kid, with floppy hair that hid his face from Bobby's view, whom Rumsfeld had pinned against the back quarter-panel on the passenger side. The kid had his hands in the air, wide open like it'd matter to the dog that he was unarmed, his head twitching to the side regularly, towards Dean, as though he was on the edge of begging for help, but refused to take his eyes off the snarling creature that was damned near choking itself on its chain.

Bobby gave himself a few moments to savor the scene -- it wasn't often that he got to just let Rumsfeld do his guard dog duty without worrying he was scaring off a potential customer -- then let out a short, high whistle.

"Rumsfeld! Down!"

Rumsfeld didn't hesitate, going from cruel, vicious beast to sedate, old dog in less than a second, dropping to his haunches and letting his mouth hang open. Strands of saliva dripped towards the dirt. The tall boy dropped his hands and slumped against the car. Bobby could hear his relieved breath from the porch.

Dean had looked up almost as attentively as the dog had at the whistle, and it took most of Bobby's considerable self-control to keep from whistling again at the full sight of the kid. The side of his face that had been turned away was mottled red and blue with bruising, and with the smirk gone, his whole bearing drooped, as though it was too much to hold himself up against the world any more. Then he straightened his shoulders, cast his exhaustion aside in a clearly practiced move, and started around the car to stand next to the taller boy.

"Dean," Bobby said, dropping his chin in a single nod. "Good to see you again."

Dean nodded back, his hands going into his pockets. It was going to be one of _those_ "conversations". He brushed the other boy with his shoulder in what was probably a reassuring gesture. The tall kid looked just as tired as Dean did, if not more, though he didn't bear the same bruises. Bobby stepped down off the porch and walked over, hand held out cordially.

"I'm guessing you're Sam?"

The tall kid looked up, slightly startled, and nodded as well. Figured. Might as well change his sign to "Singer Auto Self Service Yard and Mute Retreat".

"Good to meet you. Dean's told me a fair bit about you."

The kid's -- Sam's -- head dropped again, and his "nice trick" was barely audible, but it was words, and Bobby filed them away. Apparently Dean's muteness wasn't genetic or contagious. The kid was just that tired.

"Well, come on in. You both look like you could use a drink." That got a nod from both of them, though Sam was shooting Dean curious looks that told Bobby loud and clear the boy hadn't let his brother in on just where they'd been going.

Yeah, this was going to be interesting.

* * *

Dean tossed back the shot of holy water like an old pro and passed the glass back over to Bobby without a single questioning gesture. Sam looked at his with narrowed, confused eyes, and shot a glance at Dean. Dean shrugged.

"Go on, then," Bobby said, waving a hand towards the glass. "It's only holy water."

Sam's confusion deepened, and he didn't touch the glass. Dean rolled his eyes and lifted his hands, moving them too quickly for Bobby to make out what he was saying. Sam shook his head, and Dean's shoulders rose and dropped in a silent huff. Bobby tapped the table with two fingers.

"Humor an old man, Sam."

Sam looked to Bobby, then back to Dean, who nodded. Then, with a pinched expression that let anyone who knew or cared that he was doing this entirely under protest, he lifted the glass and drank the holy water in two short sips. He neither steamed nor flinched, and Bobby nodded, taking the glasses back and filling them with whiskey.

"So. What brings you boys by, then?" Bobby looked straight at Dean, not expecting Sam to know the answer. Dean rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and kept them there, but lifted his hands again, this time gesturing slowly and precisely in single words to make sure Bobby followed.

 _Fire. Ceiling._

Hell. "Your Aunt and Uncle?"

A shake of the head. _Girlfriend_ and a thumb jerked at Sam. Sam stared down into his shot.

"Hell," Bobby said aloud this time. "I'm sorry, kid. That's a tough way to lose someone."

Sam nodded, his brow still creased with confusion and his body heavy with grief. It had to still be very fresh, since last Bobby'd heard, Dean was working a case and all had been well in Sam's world. He looked from his brother to Bobby and back, then spoke, voice as quiet as it had been out in the yard. "What -- I -- what's with the holy water?"

Dean tossed back the shot of whiskey and set the glass hard on the table, fingers flicking at the rim aimlessly. Bobby looked from him to his brother and back, then settled back in his chair. "Dean, I got some boxes in my truck that need unloading. I'd do it myself, but my back ain't what it used to be. Do you think you could do me the favor?"

Dean nodded quickly, taking the task for what it was: an excuse to get out of the room and the conversation, which they both knew wasn't going to go well if they had to keep to simple words or wait for Dean to write it all out. Sam opened his mouth to protest, but fell silent at a single swipe of Dean's hand and a pointed look. Dean left the room, and Sam watched him go, turned sideways in his seat, hand clenched around his still-full shot glass. Bobby waited. After several moments, Sam turned slowly back to the table and met Bobby's gaze.

Bobby waited more.

Just before he was about to give up and get this conversation started himself, Sam let out a slow breath and spoke.

"You work with my brother?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"This is a salvage yard."

"It is."

"He's in classic cars."

Bobby simply nodded. He was still waiting for "the" question. He didn't have to wait much longer.

"What the hell is going on here?"

Bobby sighed and adjusted the brim of his hat. "What's your brother told you?"

"Nothing. He just --" Sam swallowed, a look of guilt and anger slipping over his features for just a moment before he schooled his expression. Bobby filed the look away and waited. "He said he was taking me to see a friend. Who could help."

"And that's what he did."

"No offense," Sam said, disbelief and cynicism not so much coloring his voice as coating it. "But how can a car parts salesman help with Jess?"

Jess must be the girlfriend. "Dean mentioned a fire."

Sam nodded.

"And a ceiling."

Sam tensed, then nodded again, slower this time.

Dean hadn't told the kid a single, damned thing. Bobby growled low in his throat, then sat up and rested his hands on the table. "Let's start at the beginning, Sam. You tell me exactly what you remember happening."

"I'm sorry, but I don't see --"

"I'll explain. I just want to hear the story in your words, first." Bobby's tone was gentle but firm, brooking no argument, rather, he felt, like a professor might do with a difficult student. He knew Sam was a fan of school -- he hoped it would help him relax.

It did. "Dean had a job. Said he was going to Jericho, California to work, was gone about a month."

Bobby knew that much. Constance Welch and her victims had been a tough one -- Dean had only planned to be away about a week, but finding the connection between the victims and the cause of Constance's anger had been harder than either of them had expected. It wasn't the research -- Dean did well enough on that front as well as the more physical side of the job, shooting and fighting and digging and burning with the best of them. It was the other part of the job that caused him trouble, the one that took up a good three-quarters or more of most any hunt: talking to people. Bobby usually sent the kid on hunts that were already clean-cut, simple salt and burns that might have a twist in where the last body part was hidden, but nothing that couldn't be found out in a Hall of Records or police station if you really tried. Jericho, Dean had found himself, and insisted on doing the legwork for, and Bobby hadn't had the heart to argue. The boy could do pretty well once people got comfortable, he had the charm and wit needed to keep a conversation going and could generally compensate well for his handicap, but getting the trust he needed to get started was another story altogether. People just didn't expect cops or reporters or officials to be mute. It was a hell of a hurdle to get over, and it'd taken Dean a month and one last missing person to do it.

Bobby nodded and gestured for Sam to continue.

"He, uh. About a week ago, I got a call. From his office in Palo Alto. They wanted to know where he was and why he hadn't reported for work."

Hell. Dean had blown his cover.

"So I went to go find him. Took a bus down to Jericho, spent the whole weekend asking around. Lots of people had seen him, but I was always a couple steps behind." Sam swallowed. "He, uh. He was using fake credit cards."

This was obviously a sticking point for Sam, though it didn't surprise Bobby in the least. Dean had plenty of money from his cover job, and was perfectly capable of getting his own credit line, but on a job, he'd want to distance himself from his "official" identity as much as possible. One of the run-arounds for the no-talking issue was to up the illegal end of the job -- more B&E, especially -- and going around calling himself by his real name when he was doing that sort of thing was just stupid. Bobby kept his expression calm and open, and nodded. Sam sighed.

"I lost track of him and had stuff to do back home. I figured -- I figured he was an adult, and I couldn't tell him what to do, any more. So I headed back home. Didn't get in until pretty late."

"When was this?"

"Uh, last Sunday. Just under a week ago."

"November second?"

"Yeah. Why?"

Bobby shook his head. "Just getting the facts straight. Go on."

"Okay." Sam fixed him with an odd look, but then turned his gaze back down to the shot glass. "When I got home, I saw Dean's car parked outside."

"The Impala."

"Yeah. And I -- I was pissed, you know? I'd spent the whole weekend looking for him, and here he was, back where he should've been all along. I went in, but I couldn't find him -- heard the shower running. Didn't see Jess, either, so I figured I'd go to bed and talk to them the next day. I went into my room and lay down and then." He broke off there, closing his eyes, his throat working like he was trying to force the words to come but couldn't find the strength.

Bobby didn't touch him, just stayed where he was, lowered his voice and said "It's okay, Sam. Whatever happened, I ain't here to judge."

Sam nodded, eyes still screwed up tight, and gasped "That's not it." Bobby held silent and waited. "It's just. God, it was horrible."

Bobby had been in this position plenty of times in his life, and knew there wasn't a single thing he could say that would make this any easier on the kid. He just had to wait it out. Finally, Sam seemed to get his act together, and he continued.

"I felt something hit my head. Like rain. I opened my eyes and -- and she. Jess. Jessica. She was on the ceiling. Bleeding. That's what hit me, her blood. She looked terrified. And then." He swallowed again, his voice shaking, then opened his eyes and looked right at Bobby. "She burst into flames."

Bobby let the silence hang for a moment. "And then?"

Sam shook his head. "And then what?"

"That's what I'm asking you."

"And then the apartment was on fire. What do you think 'and then what'?"

"How'd you get out?"

"Dean. He -- he was just suddenly there and grabbing me. He didn't even look up, he just grabbed me and pushed me out. He didn't." Another swallow, and Sam's voice took on a strangled tone, his eyes wet. "He didn't even _try_ to save her. He just pushed me out."

The anger in Sam's voice was hard to hear, and Bobby thought of the bruises he'd seen on Dean's face. He wondered just what had passed between the two boys after they'd gotten out of that apartment.

"It ain't his fault, Sam."

"How do you know? You know him that well? 'Cause he's never even mentioned you to me. I've known Dean my entire life. He's carried lighters around since he was seventeen, but he doesn't smoke. He disappeared for a _month_ , lied about why he was going, and just happened to get back just in time for my girlfriend -- for Jess to --"

Bobby reached out, then, grabbing hold of Sam's hand in a tight, unyielding grip, and he waited for Sam to meet his gaze again. He kept his voice low, in that soft, professorial tone and said "It wasn't his fault."

Sam stared at him, letting out a soft sob behind his closed lips. Bobby held his gaze and his hand, never wavering in his determination.

"Then whose fault was it?"

And that was the 64,000 question, wasn't it. Bobby released his hand, nodded to his flask of holy water which he'd left on the table. "What do you know about demons?"

* * *

Two hours later, Bobby found the boys sacked out in the living room, Dean stretched and sprawled on the couch in a position that was only too familiar, Sam curled tight on himself on the floor by Dean's head. Dean's face was burrowed into the cushions, his legs bent at the knee so that his feet stuck up over the arm, one boot off, the sock grayed with age and showing skin through a hole on the ball of his foot, the other boot loosened and almost dangling, pulled off the heel but still clinging to the rest of the foot. He still wore his jacket. He'd probably fallen asleep not long after he'd brought the single box in from Bobby's truck.

Sam was awake, his head leaning against the cushion, his eyes on his brother. He didn't look up when Bobby came in, but he could tell by the stiffening of the kid's body that he knew he was there.

"He asleep?"

Sam nodded. "It's good. He hasn't slept much, lately."

"You look like you could use a few hours, yourself."

He shook his head. "I'm not tired." It was a lie so obvious that there was no need to call him on it. "I just. How did you know all that? About our mom and dad?"

"He told me. Sort of." Bobby shrugged and grabbed himself a seat on an old campfire stool. Dean was effectively taking up the only comfortable sitting space in the room. "Wouldn't go into much detail, figure he can't remember all that much. He was young, then, wasn't he?"

Sam nodded. "Four. I was just a baby."

"I know."

"He got me out. They're not even really sure _how_ , since Uncle Dan says he was half-dead himself. I'm . . . I'm kinda surprised he remembers at all."

"Something like that can stick with a person, if it's important enough."

"But -- the ceiling. He really remembers that?"

"Near as I can tell. Put a lot of it together from other cases I've gotten wind of. I follow a lot of accident reports and the like, and met a couple people with similar stories about nursery fires."

"This is really what you do? You . . . hunt . . . supernatural things?"

"When I ain't selling car parts."

"And Dean does it, too."

"For almost ten years, now."

Sam looked up. "You still haven't told me. How you met him."

Bobby smiled slightly. For all the shit Dean had put him through over the years, it was a decent enough memory, and from a time when none of his memories seemed decent enough. "He was probably about seventeen. Just turned or thereabouts. You'd've probably noticed, he was with me for awhile. Just after he finished fixing up that car of his."

Sam nodded. "He went missing. Like he did this time. Told our parents and the school different things and just ran away. He was -- was he . . . hunting?"

"Nah. Not at first, I don't think. You know how he got that car?"

Sam shrugged. "He bought it when he turned sixteen. He'd been saving up for a car for years."

Bobby laughed softly, ruefully. He wasn't sure why he was surprised, any more, at how much the kid passed out on his couch had kept from his family. "It was given to him, Sam. Only, he doesn't know by who. Someone left it at the auto shop where he worked."

"Mike's. Our dad used to own part of it."

"That's right. Thing was busted up but good, but someone dropped it off anyway. Nothing on it but a note saying 'For Dean', the way he tells it. Says he wasn't sure if he should keep it, but it reminded him of your mom and dad, so he did. Checked out the VIN to make sure it wasn't stolen, of course, then got to work fixing it up. When he got it done, he headed out to track down who'd given it to him."

Sam frowned, looking back at his brother. "How? He was seventeen."

"Dunno if you've noticed, but that brother of yours has got a decent head on his shoulders, when he wants to use it for more'n a battering ram. Kid's got one of the best eyes for patterns and connections I seen in a long time. Dunno exactly how he did it, but he did it."

"And that lead him to you."

"Nope. That lead him to Omaha. Right in the middle of a werewolf problem."

Sam's eyes widened. "Werewolves."

"That's right. I was in town, then, too. Saved your brother's ass just before he was about to get his heart ripped out through his spine."

"The stitches --"

"And the arm. Got that trying to defend himself, near as I can tell. Did a pretty good job of it, too."

"He's taken classes."

"And started fights."

"Yeah. That, too."

Bobby nodded, leaning his elbows on his knees. "Well, kid naturally enough wanted to know what the hell hit 'im, and wouldn't take a lie for an answer. I talked him into going home, but next thing I knew, he'd tracked _me_ down, writing letters and sending emails, trying to get as much info about werewolves and other nasties as he could. Couldn't get the idea of hunting out of his head, so I finally figured it'd be better if he were prepared, at least. Hooked him up with a few guys more local to him, sent a couple jobs his way. These days, it's about even odds whether he's wanting a hunt or some car parts." Bobby lifted his chin, feeling an odd wash of pride as he looked Dean over again, then slapped his hands down onto his thighs. "That's enough from me, though. You're gonna crash, kid, probably sooner rather than later, and I got a camp cot in my back room that'll be a damned sight more comfortable than that floor."

Sam looked for a moment like he was about to object, but then lifted one shoulder and pushed himself slowly to his feet. He brushed off his pants, then paused, eyes skimming over to Bobby. "This 'hunting'. It's dangerous?"

"Most extreme sort there is."

"But people do it."

"If they didn't, we'd be a lot more screwed than we are."

"Could -- do you think I could learn?"

Bobby ran a hand over his beard. The last thing he needed was to become some guru to a bunch of over-excited adrenaline junkies. Still, if Dean was any indication, Sam would probably do it anyway. "You could. Ask your brother when he wakes up. And get your ass to bed."

Sam smiled slightly and gave a sardonic "yes sir," before heading in the direction Bobby indicated. Bobby watched him go, hands shoved into the pockets of his old down vest.

"I know you didn't sleep through that, Winchester."

Dean shifted only slightly, freeing up one hand to wiggle his fingers in the air.

"How long you been awake?"

A slight shrug. Bobby leaned over to shake his shoulder.

"Dammit, boy, sit up if you're gonna talk to me."

The finger wiggling became somehow petulant, but Dean at least rolled over. Bobby winced as he caught sight of the bruises, again, his own hand lifting slightly, though he stopped himself before he touched them.

"He do that to you?"

Dean looked away, and Bobby knew the answer.

"Hell, kid. It wasn't your fault."

Dean moved to roll over, and Bobby flicked him in the ear. That got an outraged look, just what he'd been going for.

"You listen to me, you idiot, there wasn't a damned thing you could've done. Not now, and not then. You got me?"

Dean closed his eyes, his brows drawing together in concentration, and he spoke. "Tried."

Bobby startled. "Holy hell."

Dean winced, hand coming up to rub at his throat, and Bobby realized that the cracked, strained sound was probably painful to make. Still, Dean tried again.

"Latin."

"You tried an exorcism?" Bobby hazarded. Dean nodded, and Bobby shook his head. "You ever tried one before?" A headshake. "You even heard one pronounced, or only read 'em?" Dean closed his eyes and lifted two fingers and Bobby groaned. "Hell, kid. You can't go up against a demon armed with a language you can't speak."

Dean's hands came up, his actual voice apparently abandoned. _I know Latin._

"You can read Latin, you mean. Write it, maybe. Maybe even hear it and understand. That don't mean you can speak it. You of all people should know that."

Dean's chest rose and fell in a silent sigh, and he turned his eyes away. Bobby changed the subject.

"How long have you been able to talk?"

Dean didn't answer.

"This new, or something you been hiding?"

He still didn't answer. Bobby gave up. If there was one thing he'd learned in the past decade, it was that he couldn't get Dean to budge when he really didn't want to.

"Well. Either way, it still ain't your fault. Something's got its eyes on you boys. Your mom and dad were the start. If we want you two to survive, we got work to do."

Dean opened his eyes then, a look of hope sparking them back to life, and he nodded. Bobby reached out to rub his shoulder again, then pushed himself to his feet. "Go back to sleep, kid. Tomorrow we're gonna start training your brother."


End file.
